


Sins of the Past

by Calacious



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning the truth about what happened after the school shooting, Nero has a lot to think about. Missing scene for, "You Are My Sunshine," featuring Nero and Juice (no slash).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Written with nison99 in mind, who suggested that I write a, 'missing scene,' from, "You are My Sunshine," season 6, episode 12. References are also made to episode 2 of season 6, "One One Six." Biblical reference made is 2 Corinthians 1:3-4.
> 
> Warning: Spoilers for season 6, episodes 2 and 12. Written prior to watching the season finale, because I didn't want that to color the writing of this. The first two lines, and one of the last lines of the story are dialogue taken directly from the show.
> 
> This is a missing scene story, though it differs from canon, in that Juice is naked in this 'missing scene.' I've never written a, 'missing scene,' type story before, so I'm hoping I did okay on this.

_“Darvany, you killed her, Jax put that on you?”_

_“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”_

Nero looks at the boy, Juice, curled up on the floor, listens to his repeated litany of sorries for killing Darvany – nothing more than a used up, mother junkie of a messed up kid – and he has to step outside of the room for just a second.

Just has to take a moment to catch his breath, get his head on straight, and think about his options.

There are few, and he doesn't particularly like any of them, but, he can't let the kid, Juice, he reminds himself, lie, naked on the floor.

'Course, he might be just fine, might be able to pick himself up and get himself into bed on his own, might not die. Gemma had gotten most of the drugs out of his system in time. Probably.

Boy, like Darvany, might be better off dead.

Might be okay without his help.

_Shit._

Nero closes his eyes.

Doesn’t want Juice’s increased trembling to be anything more than a natural reaction to the cool air that’s hitting Juice’s bare skin, covered in sweat that’s probably equally cold.

If he doesn’t see it, then he won’t be expected to do anything about it.

Like a kid, playing peek-a-boo, covering his eyes with his hands – if you can’t see it, then it can’t see you, and if it can’t see you, then it doesn’t exist. It isn’t real.

His own hands are shaking, and Nero’s reminded of the last time that he got high. The way the drugs had taken away the pain, made him feel like he could conquer the fucking world, and like they could make him whole again, the way nothing else, no one else, could.

Was that what Juice had been looking for? Something to make him whole? A temporary forgiveness found in the oblivion of round, white pills?

Thinking of finding religion at the bottom of a whiskey bottle with the aid of little red and white pills, reminds him of a Bible verse from second Corinthians.

“All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us," Nero mutters the memorized words like a prayer, and raises his eyes, his hands, toward heaven. “God help me.”

And, fuck, Nero remembers the rush of getting high, like it was yesterday, and the pain it had left, sitting like dead weight in his gut when it wore off, and Nero rubs a shaky hand down his face. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need the reminder. Surely God understands that. Surely God’s done punishing him for the sins of his past.

Nero looks at Juice, lying in a broken, shivering mess on the floor – sees a little of himself in the boy, a little of them all in him. It’s a messed up, fucked up world that they’ve chosen to live in; it can make or break someone, and though it looks as though Juice is broken, Nero knows better.

The boy’s begging for mercy, even if Nero can’t hear the words, and Juice isn’t speaking them aloud. It’s clear in the agony on his face, in what he’s almost done tonight.

The boy’s begging for an end to his suffering, and Nero could give that to him, could end his suffering, could let the boy remain broken.

He’s done it before, only regrets it sometimes in his nightmares, when he lets his guard done. Doubts that aiding Juice in the ending of his suffering would rob him of any sleep, now, or in the future.

“When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us…” Nero mutters, and he crouches on the floor, lets his hand fall on Juice’s shoulder.

The boy’s flesh is cool to the touch, and slick with sweat, covered in tiny bumps of gooseflesh. Nero shakes his head, bites back the bitter taste of bile when it rises in the back of his throat.

He remembers the necessity of taking a life, back in the days when he meted out barrio justice. Remembers how it had been a high in and of itself – killing someone – how satisfying it had been. How right it’d felt.

Sometimes, now, they visit him, those whom he’d killed. Some of them faceless. He can hear their cries, feel the give of their flesh beneath his fingers, taste their blood on his tongue, choking and sputtering on just the memory of them. They hang around him like ghostly shadows. Dark, shapeless death wraiths, waiting for the day when they get to escort him to the grave. 

 Jax didn’t need to order Juice to kill. It was senseless, and out of control.

Jax was out of control, and Nero didn’t need any of this.

He’d gotten out of shit like this for a reason. He had paid his time, fought his fights, and now he was running a legit business, and he’d made himself right with God, if not with those he’d hurt, those he’d killed. There’d be a time for that, but it wasn’t now.

Violence begat violence. Always had, always would. Nothing could change that.

Nero’d thought that he’d made it clear of what he’d sowed when he was younger – the hate, the anger, the violence, the drugs, and booze…

It’s haunting him still –the violence of his youth –  in Juice, lying shivering on the floor, apologizing for killing someone who didn’t need to die; in Jax, arbitrarily handing out death sentences like they were candy; in Gemma, grasping at straws for family; in his crew coming to him, looking for answers that he just didn’t have, didn’t want to have.

All of it – this shit that’s happening now – is tied up in his past sins.

He’s done this.

He’s brought this on himself, and there’s no backing out of it.

And there are no easy answers, except for in this.

No easy answers, except for in opening his eyes, and _seeing_ the shivering boy curled up on the floor like a lost child, lips mouthing soundless apologies that not even the angels in heaven will hear. Because in this, in this, he sees himself, and he can’t just walk away, though he wants to.

He did this.

He’d signed Darvany’s and Arcadio’s death sentences the moment he’d taken up with Gemma and her son.

He could have ended things before they’d come to that, could have walked away from the woman that he now loved.

Could have said, fuck it, when he’d seen himself in her that first night.

But, he hadn’t, instead, he’d tried to fix her, tried to fix himself, and now there was Jax, and Juice, and there was no doubt in Nero’s mind that the boy had been hurting for a long time now.

He can’t fix that. Can’t rewind time, and make better choices. Can’t wash his hands of what he’s done.

He can’t fix the boy. Isn’t even going to try.

What he can do, though – pick the boy up off the floor, get him cleaned up, and into bed – he will. 

“C’mon, Juice,” Nero says quietly, doubtful that the shivering boy can actually hear him now.

Juice’s lips are moving, mouthing silent sorries that will probably continue when the drugs wear off and he’s finally asleep. Eyes closed, he doesn’t even try to move away, doesn’t try to help, when Nero wraps his arms around him, and lifts. He isn’t heavy, has the insignificant weight of an anorexic junkie, or, even more disturbing, the weight of Nero’s son, Lucius.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, hermano,” Nero whispers, lips brushing against the side of Juice’s head as he pulls the boy upright, his back a little creaking in protest, even under the slight weight.

“Think you can walk?” Nero laughs, shakes his head, and hoists Juice into his arms, carrying him like he would his own son. The bathroom isn’t far, but his back isn’t happy with the strain of the added weight. He isn’t as young as he used to be.

Nero settles Juice beside the tub, positioning him so that he’s mostly upright, catches him when he’s about to fall and slide sideways. When he’s sure that Juice won’t topple, not that it would matter much if he did, Nero starts the water, checking the temperature to make sure that it’s warm.

He hasn’t had to bathe a grown man in a long time. Not since the good old days. Resists the urge to simply wipe Juice down with a wet washcloth. It would be sufficient, but it wouldn’t help the boy feel clean when he got free of the drugs, and woke up to face the cold light of day.

When the tub is a third of the way full, Nero heaves Juice up and over the lip of the tub, grunting as his back spasms, gets Juice settled in the water, head and back propped up against the head of the tub. Juice’s eyes are open now, brows furrowed in question, but his lips have finally stopped moving, and Nero’s grateful for that.

“Gonna get you washed up, and into bed, alright?” Nero asks, holding the washcloth up in his hand so that Juice doesn’t get any funny ideas, or think that he’s trying to take advantage of him. He holds the washcloth out to Juice, in the off-chance that the boy’s with it enough to take it from him and wash himself.

Juice stares at the washcloth as though he’s never seen one before, frowns like he’s trying to puzzle out Nero’s meaning, and not quite getting it. Shaking his head, Nero offers Juice a smile, and gets to work, wanting to be quick and thorough.

“Sorry,” Juice’s voice is so quiet that Nero can barely hear it. It’s quiet, and broken, and Nero concentrates on wiping the soap bubbles from beneath Juice’s left knee. He doesn’t look at Juice, doesn’t need to, to know the look of pain and sorrow and guilt, that’s on the boy’s face.

He nods, and moves onto Juice’s thighs. He doesn’t blush. Ignores the blush of pink that sweeps up across Juice’s flesh, because he understands what it’s like, being unable to bathe himself, understands Juice’s embarrassment, but he’s not going to spare him from it.

“Enough sorries,” Nero says, raking the washcloth over Juice’s groin.

He’s gentle, and quick, and clinical in his movements, noting the way that Juice lets out a shuddering breath when he’s done with that unpleasant task, and moves onto the boy’s back, pulling him forward, soaking his own shirt in the process. Nero holds his breath, lets it out, and ignores the pain in his knees. He’s too old for this shit.

“He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others,” Nero mutters beneath his breath, remembering, and wondering why God has seen fit to put him through this, again.

Penance for past, or future sins.

“I’m sorry,” Juice’s voice, sleep and drug slurred, cracks, and his shoulders shake.

“Enough, hermano,” Nero says firmly, shaking Juice a little.

Juice swallows audibly, nods his head and Nero hugs him close, for just a second, pats his back, and then runs the washcloth down Juice’s back, letting the water chase the suds away. The rest of the bath is conducted in silence, Juice not meeting Nero’s eyes, his hands clutched in fists at his side as he shivers. The water isn’t cold, it’s not yet lukewarm.

“Okay, up we go,” Nero says, and this time Juice tries to help, tries to get his feet underneath him, but his brain doesn’t seem to be on the same program, and Nero ends up carrying the brunt of Juice’s weight.

Nero wraps a towel around Juice’s waist, and uses another to dry the still shivering boy. He’s not yet out of the woods, but his pallor’s a little less the chalky blue of death, and more the pale white of life.

“Let’s get you into bed, where you can sleep it off,” Nero says, and Juice’s head falls forward on a nod, doesn’t come back up.

The boy’s feet are twisted and uncooperative, but he does try to walk to the bed, and Nero lets him try, helps him as he stumbles his way across the floor, takes most of the boy’s weight, and promises his sore back that he’ll treat it to a massage when he has the time. Somehow, he doubts that he’ll be able to manage to fulfill the promise any time soon.

Nero holds Juice upright with one arm around the boy’s waist, pulls the bedclothes back, and then helps Juice up onto the bed. He settles him in the middle, pillows propped beneath Juice’s head, and then he maneuvers him onto his side, just in case. Doesn’t need Juice choking on his own vomit, not after what he and Gemma have done for him tonight.

“Thanks.” The word falls almost silently from Juice’s lips, his eyes closing, breath growing shallow and even as Nero pulls the bedclothes up, tucking the sheets and bedspread up to Juice’s shoulders, securing the blankets around him.

“De nada,” Nero says, tracing one of the tattoos on Juice’s skull with an index finger, brushing his lips over the boy’s forehead, kissing him like he would Lucius.

Juice smiles, and snuggles into the pillow, hugging it close, letting out a breath that he’d been holding in for a long time. It isn’t forgiveness, and Nero knows that Juice will feel like shit when he wakes, but that’s the price of second, third, or how many ever chances the kid’s got.

“The morning’s sun will bring a fresh perspective with it,” Nero says, and he lets his gaze linger a little longer on Juice, watches the boy’s chest rise and fall, and reassures himself that Juice will continue to breathe even after he leaves.

Nero takes a deep breath, and, smoothing the covers over Juice, he rests his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing, offering what little comfort he can. The morning’s sun will also bring heartache, and pain with it and Nero will be right there, making sure that Juice doesn’t try to escape from it again, that he doesn’t get that ‘peaceful’ way out of this world that he wants. At least not yet, because the boy’s too young, and there’s still a way out of this for him that doesn’t involve death. 

Layla steps into the room, drawing Nero’s attention away from Juice. “ _Gemma called, said she wants you to meet her and Jax at his house. Sounded urgent.”_

Nero nods, and with a last glance at Juice which assures that him Juice is still breathing, that he’ll still be counted amongst the living come morning, he leaves. 


End file.
